Tim Burns was eating his supper of potatoes and eggs at the kitchen table, together with his wife and two children, when a knock came upon the door. “Come in,” called Tim. It was Gratten Haley, candidate for school director and--McQuirk! “Hello Tim,” greeted Haley, cheerily, “feedin’ your face?” “God bless uz an’ save us, Mr. McQuirk,” ejaculated Mrs. Burns, confused at the sight of the ward’s great man. “Here Xavier, git down wid yez at wanst, an’ give the gintleman yez sate.” She dumped her eldest son unceremoniously from his chair and dusted it with her apron. But McQuirk re-seated the boy and shoved the chair back to the table. “Pitch in, son,” advised he, heartily. He speared an egg with a fork and placed it on the child’s plate. “Go to work,” said he. He rumpled the youngster’s hair and turned to Mrs. Burns. “This must be a fast day,” remarked he. “There’s two this week, so they give out from the altar on Sunday,” answered Mrs. Burns; “an’ a body’s lost widout the bit av mate, after workin’ all day.” Mr. Haley stood in the background, near the range, pulling slowly at a fat black cigar, and gazing at his leader admiringly. “For star plays,” muttered he with ecstasy, to himself, “run me against McQuirk. He’s a miracle!” The feminine and juvenile side of the house surrendered without firing a shot; but Tim was made of different stuff and had a long memory. He glowered at his plate from under his brows and caused buttered wedges of bread and saucers of tea to disappear with startling rapidity. “Got plenty to do, Tim?” McQuirk stood with his back to the range and tugged at the spike-like points of his moustache. “Lots av it--_now_!” Tim put a great deal of emphasis on the last word so that the boss might not misunderstand. “The delegates are named to-night,” interrupted the candidate for school director, hurriedly, “and the town will be jammed with conventions to-morrow, all the way from members o’Congress to,” modestly, “school director.” “I know,” said Mr. Burns. “I want your support!” said McQuirk, bluntly. “There’s a movement to wall me up in me own division by a gang o’ would-be reformers; and I want all me friends to stand by me.” “So yez want me vote?” asked Tim, as he wiped his mouth on a corner of the table-cloth and pushed back his chair. “Sure; you’ve voted with the party ever since you got out your papers, an’ you’re entitled to a say in the primaries.” “Have a cigar,” invited Haley, as Burns got up. “I’ll smoke me poipe,” said Tim. He took it down from a shelf and knocked out the “heel” on the edge of the range, then proceeded to cut a fresh charge from a plug of “Rough and Ready,” with his pocket knife. “I’m a Dimmycrat,” said Tim, “an’ plaze God, I’ll always stay wan.”